


the condition of something called memory

by mido



Category: No. 6 - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1842214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mido/pseuds/mido
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>vent</p>
    </blockquote>





	the condition of something called memory

**Author's Note:**

> vent

He never understood it, not even when all he could do was lie in bed and listen to the summer cicadas screaming the night away while he halfheartedly hoped to obtain some form of catharsis and comprehension of the thoughts clustering together in his head. He remembers when he was seven years old, coming to visit Shion after the boy had left the hospital earlier that day, and was proudly displaying a lime green cast on his arm after tripping and falling on his wrist. He remembers when he was nine and had gotten into his first fight with someone who'd been taunting Shion about his white hair and red eyes, saying he looked like a demon and didn't belong there.

His chest had ached when Shion had gazed out at a cloudy night sky behind the glass window in his bedroom, watching serenely through thick lashes clumped with wetness as his soft words gave way to silence; the kind of silence that filled Nezumi's lungs and grabbed at strands of his long, dark hair and dug its nails into his pale skin, leaving miniature crescent-moons that took longer than usual to fade. His voice had been barely above a whisper, asking "Does Karan know?"

Shion had shook his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up into something Nezumi wasn't sure he could call a smile. "It's really not that important," He said, the words seeming to fall out of his mouth like they'd been nestled under his tongue this whole time. "She's got enough work to do with the bakery." 

He'd still been acting at that time, and still saw Rikiga in the audience, looking less and less pleased with every line that reverberated off the dim theater walls. The man used to sit on the edge of his seat with every sentence that left Nezumi's lips; those days had slept and dreamt up ones where he leaned back on the plush burgundy, crossing his arms like he didn't even wish to be there. Nezumi found it irritating; if he wasn't even going to listen and spend the time wallowing in displeasure and apathy, then why did he even bother to buy a ticket and show up in the first place? Of course, these thoughts only snaked into his mind later in the evening when the costume and makeup were off and he was wrapped snugly in his jacket and scarf once again, all his lines and movements tucked away for the next time he felt the lacquered wood of the stage beneath his feet.

Inukashi had been less subtle than Rikiga, going as far as showing up at Nezumi's door just as the sun had laid down on the horizon, lazily dangling one of its shining hands over the edge for the moon to grasp and pull itself up from. He hadn't bothered to listen, of course, snickering when the shorter boy's face flushed with embarrassment as he clenched his fists and haphazardly threw out insults, yelling for Nezumi to quit being so wrapped up in himself and take the time to notice what was happening.

In the end, it probably would've been better if he'd listened.

But none of that matters now, all dust in the wind. Even if he had heeded Inukashi's advice, what would've been gained from it? Would he still be able to trudge down to Karan's bakery and slip up the stairs to be greeted by a familiar head of fluffy white hair? Would he still be pestered about his basic lifestyle of endless bowls of soup for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Would he still be pulled out of the house at ungodly hours to go do things he'd never regret because it was those times that Shion would smile, actually smile, just for him? 

All dust in the wind, he tells himself. He wonders what Shion thought before he lost his grip on the handlebars of the cramped veranda outside his window, what was running through his mind when the moon had screamed at him to stop, etching pale scratches of regret onto the backs of his eyelids. He wonders if he'll ever see hair that exact shade of snowy white, if he'll ever see eyes so intensely red they match the splatters of an albino's twisted corpse, sprawled grotesquely on the pavement. He wonders if the ache is going to fade, and if it does, will it be like the faded crescent-moons on his skin because of silence, carved into him by words lost in the thick summer air while the sensation of clasped hands remains fresh in his mind, unfading.

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted to my [tumblr](http://writingfromthewomb.tumblr.com).


End file.
